Veteran Richard Jefferson woke up and his heart was beating too fast and his eyes felt wet and painful. "Probably the apnea, or the nightmares," he supposed as he stood up and walked to the hotel sink. "The basilisks of 2003. Would they ever slither in and out of Duncan's eyes again, as they had in Game 6? Were they ever really there or had I invented them?" he wondered as he turned on the faucet and moistened a towel to wipe off his bloodshot, pus-filled eyes.
During these quick first moments in the morning, in the slick and adequate hotels of Eastern Conference roadtrips, RJ often had days like this. According to the mirror, the whites of his eyes were completely red. "Clay Face" they used to call him, because his head and face seemed so malleable, innocent, and bald. But the reddened eyes gave the gentle giant a sort of distortive horror and ruined the illusion, and his face now appeared as a bleeding bronze stone - a single, indivisible sadness. He poured a cup of tea from the ancient bronze hotel samovar and noticed, intricately carved around the samovar, an ouroboros - the snake that eats its own tail. "How old was this samovar? What will happen if I -...," sipped Richard Jefferson.
This sip suddenly begins the familiar ramblings. "2003 - As a Net - saw beyond - The continuum - the snake - the cyclical nature of time - David Robinson and Coach Pop on the sidelines - a terror only I could sense - will I be enemy to the adders - the eyes - do any of the others know?". His heart still moving at the same unnatural pace, he moved from the sink to lie down and he covered his ears and he clenched his eyes and teeth in pain and intensity. "My eyes bleed just thinking about it," he supposed after a bit. Jefferson was now wearing his full Spurs garb for some reason. Gradually his eyes stopped watering and he fell asleep.
Richard Jefferson may go to sleep in pain, but by breakfast time in an hour, Jefferson will end up content. After all, this happens every morning: Upon waking, the stages of grief proceed quickly and smoothly over the course of the next five minutes. Soon after, as he returns to sleep, a flood of bland and idle bliss will soothe his mind like aloe until night. In an hour, like always, Jefferson goes from sleeping anguish to sleeping contentment and wakes gently in this happy state. This state RJ recognizes as the beginning of his day, and barely remembers or recognizes any other point in his (no doubt) unbroken slumbers. "And now it is breakfast time." Jefferson's humorous, naive heart beats again at a normal clip, and having forgotten whatever it was that had made him fear, he moves on to the breakfast buffet. "There is no reason to be suspicious," he supposes, "of anything at all".
As he walks to the buffet, he mentally prepares for an assessment with Jeff Van Gundy and Sean Elliott. They are screening him for possible color commentary after his eventual retirement from the NBA. Last time it was his expertise they put to the test. Today they want self-deprecating humor about his playing career. He tries to think of some anecdotes. He thinks of plenty.
Meanwhile, a small, blunt scab on the outside of an ankle goes unnoticed, and in his room a used glass is on the table, empty but for tiny chunks of fine ice and strong suggestions of root beer that a sniff and a glance would reveal. Richard Jefferson hates root beer, but room service will take the glass away unexamined. In the dining hall he looks for the funniest possible plate of food among many choices, to present to the waking Spurs for their enjoyment. He finds plenty of options.
During these quick first moments in the morning, in the slick and adequate hotels of Eastern Conference roadtrips, RJ often had days like this. According to the mirror, the whites of his eyes were completely red. "Clay Face" they used to call him, because his head and face seemed so malleable, innocent, and bald. But the reddened eyes gave the gentle giant a sort of distortive horror and ruined the illusion, and his face now appeared as a bleeding bronze stone - a single, indivisible sadness. He poured a cup of tea from the ancient bronze hotel samovar and noticed, intricately carved around the samovar, an ouroboros - the snake that eats its own tail. "How old was this samovar? What will happen if I -...," sipped Richard Jefferson.
This sip suddenly begins the familiar ramblings. "2003 - As a Net - saw beyond - The continuum - the snake - the cyclical nature of time - David Robinson and Coach Pop on the sidelines - a terror only I could sense - will I be enemy to the adders - the eyes - do any of the others know?". His heart still moving at the same unnatural pace, he moved from the sink to lie down and he covered his ears and he clenched his eyes and teeth in pain and intensity. "My eyes bleed just thinking about it," he supposed after a bit. Jefferson was now wearing his full Spurs garb for some reason. Gradually his eyes stopped watering and he fell asleep.
Richard Jefferson may go to sleep in pain, but by breakfast time in an hour, Jefferson will end up content. After all, this happens every morning: Upon waking, the stages of grief proceed quickly and smoothly over the course of the next five minutes. Soon after, as he returns to sleep, a flood of bland and idle bliss will soothe his mind like aloe until night. In an hour, like always, Jefferson goes from sleeping anguish to sleeping contentment and wakes gently in this happy state. This state RJ recognizes as the beginning of his day, and barely remembers or recognizes any other point in his (no doubt) unbroken slumbers. "And now it is breakfast time." Jefferson's humorous, naive heart beats again at a normal clip, and having forgotten whatever it was that had made him fear, he moves on to the breakfast buffet. "There is no reason to be suspicious," he supposes, "of anything at all".
As he walks to the buffet, he mentally prepares for an assessment with Jeff Van Gundy and Sean Elliott. They are screening him for possible color commentary after his eventual retirement from the NBA. Last time it was his expertise they put to the test. Today they want self-deprecating humor about his playing career. He tries to think of some anecdotes. He thinks of plenty.
Meanwhile, a small, blunt scab on the outside of an ankle goes unnoticed, and in his room a used glass is on the table, empty but for tiny chunks of fine ice and strong suggestions of root beer that a sniff and a glance would reveal. Richard Jefferson hates root beer, but room service will take the glass away unexamined. In the dining hall he looks for the funniest possible plate of food among many choices, to present to the waking Spurs for their enjoyment. He finds plenty of options.
Man, this has to be one of the darkest pieces ever written about Richard Jefferson. I probably hold 7 of the top 10 slots in the category of "Dark Pieces About Richard Jefferson".
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